


Atrophy

by Aja



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Eating Disorders, Fanart, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-09-01
Updated: 2002-09-01
Packaged: 2018-09-23 10:11:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9651278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aja/pseuds/Aja
Summary: Draco's rebelling against something, but he isn't sure what.  And he isn't wearing leather, although he may be eating it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Rach, who provided inspiration, beta'd, and wrote the summary.
> 
> This fic was written in part as a result of a discussion she and I had about various acts of rebellion, and how fanfic writers are always choosing really ‘cool,’ sexy ways for Draco or Harry or anyone to rebel. I was focusing on the idea that rebellion could be unsexy, and so I was trying to drum up a scenario where Draco would choose something traditionally unappealing instead of wearing leather pants, smoking cigarettes, or cutting himself. This story was generated from that; it was also written in part because I am angsty and lonely and felt like it.
> 
> Thank you to Rene and Rach for two lovely betas, and to Adrienne for the beautiful artwork.

If he had known at the time it would be his last really good orgasm in this skin he would have made more noise. 

Potter had this thing he did, just before he deep-throated his cock, this tiny catch in the back of his throat followed by a deep guttural moan, that convinced Draco each and every time that Potter would rather die than have Draco Malfoy’s cock anywhere else besides shoved down his throat as far as it could go. It did the trick every time, and always made Draco come unbelievably hard. He had a feeling Potter didn’t actually like having a wad of Malfoy’s come down his throat—it always seemed to catch him off-guard, and he had a tendency to choke rather than swallow it. Draco figured that since that tiny clicking noise and that moan always caught him just as off guard it was only fair payback, but he couldn’t escape the vaguely disgusted look in Potter’s eyes after each session. 

“You know, if you don’t like it you don’t have to do it,” he said finally. 

Potter grimaced and wiped the come dribbling out of the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. “You never make any noise,” he said. “Am I not doing it right?” 

Draco looked at him and answered sulkily, “You’re doing it fine. I’m just quiet, is all.” 

“Bullshit, Malfoy, you’re a fucking drama queen. All you ever do is make noise. And here you can’t even make a little squeak when I suck you off.” He stood up angrily and moved away from Draco’s bed. 

After a moment Draco muttered, “Oh, get out already, Potter.” 

“Fine. See you around.” 

Potter left and did not come back. It was six months before Draco wanted to have sex again, and another three before he really started to miss it; but by that point he had gained twenty pounds and no one wanted to have sex with him. 

The Malfoys had always been noted for their figures. Every single one of the portraits lining his walls back at the Manor had been of reed-like body after body. The men were all narrow-waisted and straight and tall, the women all petite and elfin. As a child Draco had been taught always to leave at least a third of the portions of his meal on the plate. Being caught with an empty dish was a sign of greediness and excess; and besides it was always considerate to leave scraps for the house elves to divide among themselves. He also suspected that his mother took a thinning tonic every night that contained a bizarre mix of dragonweed and Veela blood, but this was never confirmed, as he had always been nervous she would make him take it too if he ever asked about it. 

She never did, but then she never needed to, because Malfoy had always had a slim, grand sort of figure, just like his ancestors. He had been proud of that, for a long time. Once about six weeks after Potter and his come-dripping smart mouth had sashayed out of his dormitory, she had murmured, “Be proud you’re a Malfoy. Malfoys never get fat.” 

“Of course, mother,” said Draco, and he had decided on the spur of the moment to help himself to another piece of pecan pie. 

“Malfoy, what are you doing?” Potter asked him hotly the following fall. Draco was the subject of constant snickering these days, especially since his Quidditch game had been done in completely by the additional weight on his broom. He had been the captain, but Madam Hooch had told him in no uncertain terms that he needed to find another Seeker or go on a diet. He had responded by stealing a bucket of double chocolate ice cream from the kitchens and holding tryouts. Now he was still the captain, but from the sidelines, and he rarely flew except sometimes after midnight, when he would sneak outside and fly near the Forbidden Forest, where no one would see him except maybe that short-sighted oaf Hagrid. 

“What do you _mean_ , Potter?” drawled Draco, as best he could with his hands full of chocolate frogs. 

“Everyone’s saying you’re turning into a—” Potter thrust his hands uncomfortably into his pockets and looked down at the floor. His voice dropped a notch. “Look, is this because of me?” 

The guilty tone was so surprising Draco let a frog hop out of his arms and down the hallway. “Oh, get over yourself, Potter,” he snapped irritably. “Nothing is because of you. Certainly nothing that concerns me.” 

“Fine,” said Potter, the same way he had said it all those months before. He looked as if he were biting back some really awful retort, then spat out, “Fat arse.” Draco blinked at him. Potter had managed the strange feat of looking both immensely pleased and immensely horrified with himself all at once. 

“Your witticisms are full of original brilliance as always, Potter.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Been there, done that.” His eyes narrowed. “Or would you like to try it again?” 

Potter scoffed. “Right, Malfoy. You think you can seduce me with a mouthful of chocolate, think again.” 

“Trust me, Potter, I have no intention of wasting my mouthful of chocolate on you,” smirked Draco. 

All the same, Potter resigned as Seeker for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. The official reason given was that he needed to get in more training for the fight against Voldemort, but between them the real reason hovered like slowly melting syrup suspended in the air between bottle and waffles. He stared at Draco during Quidditch matches. Draco ignored him and munched on crackers and usually coached the team to wins. The running inter-House joke was that a Slytherin win would be great this year just for the amusement of watching his team mates try to hoist Malfoy onto their shoulders. 

They did win, but Draco did not come to the ceremony, and nobody really cared. When they graduated Potter went off to war, and Draco returned to the Manor, where he began to read and eat regularly. His father would have had words with him about his newly developed flab, except that his father was off killing muggles, and Draco really didn’t want him to be bothered by such trivial matters when he had more weighty issues to deal with. 

Draco often made such puns to himself, as there was rarely anything else to do. 

“Draco dear, don’t you want to get out and exercise a bit?” his mother would ask. 

“No, Mother, I’m fine,” Draco would reply. 

It was really very, very boring, but after a while Draco got used to the solitude. His friends from Slytherin were—well, he didn’t exactly know what they did because he never heard from them and had not bothered to look them up. Occasionally he practiced magic, but only because he felt it threatening to seep out of him if he didn’t unbottle it every once in a while. 

It was a bit of a jolt when his father was murdered. Not because it meant his father was actually gone, but because it meant he would have to go outside. The funeral was held on the top of a great massive hill overlooking the Manor, and even though he had not considered himself to be truly out of shape, by the time he got to the top of it he was puffing and winded, and could feel his heart thumping pathetically in his chest. His legs were stinging as if they hadn’t been used properly in years; and now that he thought about it, he supposed they hadn’t been. 

His father drew a crowd of witches and wizards, most of whom he knew, some of whom he had never seen before, and were undoubtedly new recruits to Voldemort’s side of the war. The Dark Lord himself couldn’t be arsed to come, naturally; Lucius had only been his first and most powerful supporter, and Voldemort quite simply had no time to come to anyone’s funeral but his own. So the only real surprise when Draco reached the summit, other than the blatant agony of his own atrophied muscles, was the sight of a crop of unruly black hair in among all the black-robed mourners. 

He went up to it and tapped it on the shoulder. The head turned around and regarded him in surprise. Potter had grown. He had gained 20 pounds, easily, only it was sheer muscle—his torso had hardened and filled and it showed even under his thick winter robes. His eyes dimmed and flickered only for an instant before he recognized Draco, and then what sounded like an involuntary, “Wow, Malfoy,” left his lips. “You’ve…” He paused just a moment, and Draco could read the thought in his face, loud and clear: as daylight: _you’ve put on weight_. Instead, Potter ended, “…not changed.” 

“And you’re still as obvious as ever. What are you doing here?” 

“I figured I should come.” Potter straightened, and his voice dropped a notch, just as it had done that day in the corridors, and something about his expression drove the certainty into Draco that Potter had grown up somewhere along the way. “Seeing as it was my spell that hit him.” 

“Were you aiming?” 

“Are we ever?” 

“You’re not worried for your safety?” 

At that Potter gestured to either side of him, and Draco noticed the two taller men that flanked him. Bodyguards. Harry Potter, Boy Who Fucking Lived, had bodyguards. 

He wheezed with laughter, and then choked on his laughter because it was somewhat rusty. “You’re a real piece of work, Potter,” he said in between coughs, each one crystallizing on the cold air and creating a kind of weird fog around Potter’s face. “I could curse you right now.” He let his wand fall from inside his robe sleeve into his hand and waved it in front of Potter’s nose. Potter’s eyes crossed, but he didn’t move. Draco opened his mouth to cast some sort of silly curse on Harry, the fern-growing one, for example—but his tongue tied on the words before they had left his mouth. He couldn’t remember the spell. 

Potter’s eyes caught his, and widened. Draco lowered his wand hand and muttered, “Just don’t expect me to send your corpse back to your friends if you get yourself killed on my property, Potter.” 

Potter swallowed and worked his hands together a little nervously—either that or he was rubbing them to keep warm, because it was really very very cold outside. Draco was just now noticing. He also noticed his heart rate had yet to slow down from the uphill climb. “Malfoy, where…” Draco glanced up at him sharply and Potter looked down at the ground, where their feet were sinking into the spongy damp earth. 

“Where’ve you been?” 

“Oh, Potter, how touching. Missed me?” 

Potter looked up then, and so directly Draco flinched. “Maybe.” 

Draco scowled. “I’ve been right here, Potter, where do you think?” 

Instead of answering him, Potter tensed all at once. His eyes narrowed and the next thing Draco knew he was being shoved to the ground as a very green curse flew over both of their heads. Almost the same instant Potter grabbed Draco’s wand out of his hand and whirled, casting the killing curse effortlessly into the crowd towards whoever had tried to murder him. The wind was knocked out of Draco for several moments, and he lay listening to the shouts of mayhem around him, absently watching Potter’s swirling robes. The thought occurred to him that Potter had two wands now and he had none, and that he was very vulnerable, and what if Potter had come to kill him too? 

A moment later two strong arms on either side lifted him to his feet, and Draco was startled to realize that the men who had been protecting Potter were none other than Crabbe and Goyle. “Oh,” he said, and that was all he had time for, because a moment later they were apparating him back to the Manor. 

The contrast between the frigid freshness of the weather outside and the moldy stuffiness of the rooms of the manor was so startling it knocked his breath out of him for the second time in five minutes. He swayed a little on his feet, while to his immense astonishment Goyle and Crabbe began to move faster than he had ever seen them, hastily putting up wards around the windows and doors. 

“My mother is out there,” he snapped. “We have to go back.” 

“Don’t worry about your mother, Malfoy,” Crabbe said, and Draco was relieved that he still spoke in the same surly undertone. 

“What are you implying?” he asked. 

“She’ll be all right,” said Goyle, fastening a charm to the room. Draco had a vague memory that the spell made it impossible for anyone to see inside, but he wasn’t sure. 

“And what about Potter?” 

Crabbe and Goyle stopped what they were doing and exchanged a Look. 

“He can take care of himself,” one of them said. 

“That’s not what I meant.” When neither of them answered he queried furiously, “Aren’t you going to go back out there and help him?” 

“We won’t need to.” 

“That’s bullshit.” 

“Fine,” Goyle said angrily. His voice had grown deeper and louder. “You don’t believe us, go back out there and see for yourself.” 

“I can’t apparate,” said Draco, feeling suddenly helpless. 

“Then you’ll just have to walk,” answered Goyle sarcastically. 

Draco used the advantage of surprise to get a flying run out of the door before either of them could stop him. His legs, now that they were moving about, remembered how to run after all, and the others either could not catch him, or just weren’t willing to expend the energy. 

~~~~~~ 

Potter got hard from killing people. 

Draco knew viscerally he should be focused on more important things, like the way his mother had apparently vanished, but at the moment Potter’s erection was all he could see. He had climbed a tree near the battlefield and sat on the bottom limb watching. His arms ached from disuse, and Potter’s grunts of exertion as he dove and slaughtered and cursed were making Draco hard as well. Especially from that distance he could see how trim and fit and agile that body was, could feel his own body burning from a half-buried ache to be there alongside him, fighting and slaying and feeling the contact of body slamming against body. Except he barely remembered how to cast a spell. His wand had felt foreign in his hand. He couldn’t really do anything but watch, so he watched. 

He felt like he were the lone spectator to some drastic new wizarding sport: Harry Potter Against the Minions. For they were all of them minions of Voldemort, and none of them had their wands raised to defend him. He nevertheless seemed to be doing just fine; his wand would tremble and sparks would jet out of it into a crowd of them, and the bunch of them would fall, some writhing before they died, most simply being snuffed out like a pack of muggle matches. All in all it was a surprisingly easy fight. Draco watched them die with a sick feeling growing in his stomach, and he wound up clinging to the tree branch with both his arms. 

He stayed there, glued to Potter’s figure, and suddenly it was all over and the remaining members of the funeral party were fleeing, apparating right and left before they met the same end as their fallen comrades. A strong stench hung in the air, and Draco saw Potter standing alone, a little shaky on his feet, but alive, through swirling vapors of smoke and magic. It took several minutes for Draco to climb down from the tree; his legs and arms were stiff and sore, and mostly numb from the cold. By the time he had climbed down and approached him, Potter was sitting on a log in the middle of the field, absently gazing at the bodies strewn around him. Draco accidentally stepped on an arm as he crossed—the sun was getting low and it was harder to see, even though the light still burned strong uneven streaks over the hilltop. As he got closer he realized Potter was sitting on his father’s coffin, which had been dropped in the confusion. It was still right side up but had been dragged a ways through the mud somehow. Draco studied it for a moment and then sat down on it beside Potter, who silently took his hand and clutched it in a surprisingly weak grip. 

“I, I think your mother was the one who tried to curse me,” Potter said. His voice was raspy and small. Draco glanced around and saw his mother’s body lying a few feet away, the red funeral rose still clasped between her bony fingers. The petals were starting to wilt, and some were already fallen to the ground. Draco had never before realized how thin she was. In the swathe of elegant velvet mourning robes that covered her she looked almost skeletal. The nausea in his stomach solidified suddenly into a block of ice. 

“Oh,” he said. 

“I…” said Potter, but he couldn’t finish his sentence and instead gripped Draco’s hand with a sudden surge of strength. 

“Did anyone hit you?” said Draco, who really wanted to know why Potter was holding his hand but did not think it the right time to ask. 

Potter shook his head. “No, but they probably would have if I hadn’t had your wand as well as mine.” He hesitated and then fished it out of his robes and handed it back to Draco. 

Draco stared at it. After a bit he answered, “It’s all right. You can keep it.” 

Potter blinked at him. “But it’s your _wand_ , Malfoy.” 

Draco shrugged. “You may need it again some time.” 

Potter looked at him, blinking some more, and then let go of his hand. Draco had no time to wonder about this before Potter put the same hand on his cheek and kissed him on the mouth. Draco watched him lean in towards him with a strange distance. Potter’s mouth still felt the same, though they had not kissed that much; but the way he was kissing was different—softer, unsteadier. And then there was the rest of him, which looked so different, was so different; Draco could not decide what he wanted to do with his hands, because Potter’s body was no longer the same body he had touched in the past. By the time he had decided to place them gingerly on Potter’s thighs and kiss back Potter was pulling away. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, and the rasping quality of his voice was more noticeable than ever. “About your mom. And… that.” Potter’s cheeks turned red. “Thank you for the wand.” 

Draco shivered all at once. “I would have helped you,” he said suddenly, wondering if that were really the truth. “But I haven’t really done magic since Hogwarts. It—” 

Potter placed a finger on his lips. “I know. It’s okay.” 

“How do you know? And why is it okay?” Draco snapped, tugging Potter’s hand away from him. Potter sighed and re-linked his hand with Draco’s, and this time laced their fingers together as well, which was something altogether unexpected. 

“The Ministry knows this kind of thing. I brought Crabbe and Goyle along so they could get you out of danger if they had to.” 

“Why?” 

Potter shrugged. “Favor to me.” 

“Why do you care?” 

Potter looked at him evenly. “You really haven’t changed, have you? You always were this dense.” He stood. “I’ve got to get to a fireplace, can I use yours?” 

“Sure thing. Murder my parents, run up my coal bill. Same old Potter, take, take, take.” 

“You won’t have to clean any of this up, and—” Potter paused. “You’re not really that upset about it, are you?” 

Draco shrugged. “Not right now. You’d better get inside before they return. Now that they know you’re here alone—” 

“Your house will be safe, Draco, don’t worry,” said Potter, and he was suddenly very businesslike, which contrasted completely with the fact that he had never used Draco’s given name before. “The wards Crabbe and Goyle will put up are the newest and strongest the Ministry specialists have devised, they’re highly secretive and—” 

“Hold still, Potter,” said Draco, pushing himself off the coffin and noting that Potter was still a head shorter. 

Potter stopped speaking and tensed up, looking self-effacing. “I’m probably covered in blood,” he said. 

“No wonder you didn’t want to—” 

Draco cut him off swiftly with a kiss. Potter responded instantly and gave Draco his mouth, along with the first good helping of blood and dirt and sweat Draco had tasted in years. He ran his hands up underneath Potter’s robes and his hopelessly muddy shirt, and met Potter’s flesh just as Potter’s fingers were starting to trail over the slight paunch of his own stomach. Potter was lean and raw and toned and everywhere he touched was hardened muscle. He liked the feel of it, he decided after a moment, just as he liked the way Potter’s hands were kneading his skin, exploring the soft and rather squishy parts of him just as eagerly as his tongue seemed to want to explore Draco’s mouth. 

Potter had always been a good kisser, but he had gotten desperate, or so it seemed to Draco, because he was quite desperately drawing Draco’s tongue deep inside his mouth. Their teeth clacked and they made hasty amorous sounds against one another, and he realized just how long it had been since he had seriously kissed anyone—since he had kissed Potter, actually. 

He reached between Potter’s legs and stroked him, and that felt so good that it made up for the way that damned erection had been bothering him all this time. Potter hissed. Draco pushed him back against the coffin and Potter sat on it once again, pulling him down against him. Draco wondered for a moment if it were wrong of him to be thinking about fucking Potter on top of his father’s coffin, but a moment later he let his hesitation slide away, because Potter was reaching down for him and touching him, touching him again. 

The wool of Potter’s trousers was coarse and in the way and he yanked down on the fabric, hard, eliciting a gasp from Potter. Potter’s fingers ran through his hair, his thumb constantly moving down to caress Draco’s cheek or jaw line. “I like you this way,” he murmured against Draco’s lips. With a muttered spell, and without using a wand, the front of Potter’s shorts gaped open. Draco put his hand there and sighed. 

He loved the smooth glistening surface of Potter’s cock under his thumb, and the weight of it as it pulsed in his palm. Potter was sweating profusely underneath his clothes, and the scent of him that Draco remembered was stronger than ever. 

This time it was Potter who made no noise when he climaxed, hard, his hips thrusting forward off the shiny surface of the casket and shooting thick jets of come down the back of Draco’s throat. Draco looked up at him, come dribbling over his lower lip, and wiped the liquid off with the back of his hand. He smiled. Potter squinted down at him. Draco sat up and paused a moment, solely to regain control before kissing Potter again. Somehow, even though he had every intention of being neater and going slower, this second kiss wound up being sloppier and hungrier than the first, but by that point it didn’t really matter anymore. In the end neither of them worried about the mess they made, leaving everything from the dead bodies to the come-spattered casket for the officials from the Ministry, who Potter duly notified the moment they were back at the Manor. 

That night in bed Potter ran his tongue over Draco’s belly button and told him he loved him. “Come with me to London tomorrow,” he said. “I know a marvelous hotel we can get for the weekend.” 

“Why London?” Draco asked, ruffling Potter’s hair and seeing rose petals whenever he closed his eyes. 

“Because,” said Potter, “I want to buy you a new wand.” 

Draco thought. “Why would we need to get a hotel just to go to Ollivander’s?” 

Potter chuckled and nuzzled his thighs. “Ollivander’s was destroyed in the war. They built a mega-store to replace it. Over thirty thousand wands in one place.” 

“Oh.” 

“You’ll want the best.” 

“Yeah,” Draco said. “I guess so.” 

“Wait til you see the wizard hotel,” said Potter. He sounded gleeful. Young. “They’ve got this huge lobby and a ballroom that’s so fancy—oh, and mini-bars stocked with all kinds of food, whole entrees. All you have to do is ask for what you want and—” 

Draco cut him off with a long, loud peal of laughter. When Potter stared at him and asked him what was so funny Draco dragged him up and wrapped his arms around him and kissed him, and kissed him again. 

“That’s okay,” he murmured, while Harry cooed and slurped kisses over his lips. “I won’t be hungry.” 


End file.
